


the night comes down (and it's dark again)

by sometimeseffable



Series: Ineffable Godfathers [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Ineffable Godfathers, M/M, Teenage!Adam, crowley is soft tm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 10:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19788748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimeseffable/pseuds/sometimeseffable
Summary: Adam runs away - lucky his Godfathers are there to help.





	the night comes down (and it's dark again)

Adam shows up at their door at 9pm on a Tuesday.

The shop has been closed for hours at this point, its owner having decide the weather was far too mucky for a respectable place of business to be open ( _respectable_ , his companion had snickered, earning him a copy of Hamlet to the head).

“We’re closed!” Aziraphale calls as several loud knocks reverberate through the store to the back room, where he’s thoroughly enjoying his novel. It’s the perfect setting for a rainstorm; a warm, cozy room filled with golden light, a mug of cocoa by his elbow, and a wily old serpent tucked up against him.

The knocking continues. Crowley raises his head and peers in its direction with sleep-bleary eyes.

“Should we get that?” He frowns. “Sort of late for a customer, isn’t it?”

“They’ll give up eventually,” Aziraphale dismisses, turning a page. From the front, the knocking only gets more insistent, turning into a desperate sort of pounding. 

It’s hard to ignore. And whoever’s doing it doesn’t seem to want to give up.

Whatever it is, it had to be more interesting than Dickinson. At least, that’s what Crowley reasons as he levers himself up to check, despite Aziraphale’s protests. He’s not worried about someone needing help. Definitely not.

So Crowley wiggles on sleepy limbs that already have poor motor control to the door and swings it open. He’s not exactly prepared for what he finds.

“Adam?”

The young former-antichrist is shivering on the front step, soaked to the bone, curls dripping from where they’re matted to his head. Stiff fingers white-knuckle the bars of his racing bike. He’s all of fourteen now, but the lost expression on his face reminds the demon of when he was eleven, burning with recently discovered powers and terrified of it.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he croaks, and fuck if Crowley doesn’t feel something twist in his chest.

“Get inside, you’ll catch your death,” he scolds as he ushers Adam in. Miracles him dry, gets the bike to a relatively uncluttered corner upstairs, and conjures up a blanket to toss over his cold shoulders (it’s black, but it’s also tartan, for Satan’s sake - )

“Did you solve the case dear - oh, Adam!” Aziraphale’s sarcasm dissipates as he pokes out from the back room. Crowley lets him take charge, fussing over the boy, ruffling his curls with a tea towel despite that they’re dry now. “Whatever are you doing here alone so late at night? Where are your parents?”

Adam doesn’t answer beyond a vague shrug; his Godfathers, as they’d dubbed themselves at his twelfth birthday party, share a glance.

They sit him on the previously occupied couch in the backroom. A fresh mug of steaming cocoa appears with a bell-like tinkle, pressed into Adam’s blue-tipped fingers as Aziraphale sits to his one side with an arm around his shoulders.

Aziraphale’s good with the comforting touches, Crowley thinks, watching the once Destroyer of Kings lean into the angel’s warmth. Has to be a Heaven thing. People in need gravitate to him like...like...whatever. Metaphors aren’t his strong suit.

“I ran away,” Adam explains after a few sips of cocoa. Aziraphale hums appropriately; Crowley raises a brow behind dark glasses, arms crossed.

“You biked all the way here?”

Which gets him a _look_ , the kind that reads, _Darling, is this really the time to be worrying about his powers?_ To which he responds with an eyebrow raise that says, _Come on, tell me you’re not curious about what he can still do._ And then that gets a slight headshake of, _Yes alright fine, I’m curious but that’s not what we’re focusing on now. You can ask later._

This all takes place in the span of half a second (they’ve gotten rather good at nonverbal communication), so Adam doesn’t notice.

“We got in a row,” he says, all sad and bitter and righteously angry, “I don’t even remember what started it, just that they – they don’t understand! I keep trying to tell them, and they just won’t _listen!_ And then I start thinking about how – how they’re not my parents, not really, and that they wouldn’t know about how to deal with all the Hell in me, and then I just get _more_ angry but they don’t know why.”

It’s a lot to unpack all at once. Aziraphale is quick to soothe.

“They are your parents, dear. You made it that way.”

“But they’re not _really_.”

“Yes, they are. Even if you _hadn’t_ made it so they always were, they’re still the ones who raised you. They love you no matter what,” Aziraphale reassures. But Crowley watches Adam shrink away from that, shoulders rising up to his ears. He knows how fourteen-year-olds work (they’re basically demons on their own) and chooses now to step in.

“Angel, I think you’ve left the kettle on,” Crowley says, as diplomatic as he ever gets. He gets a blank look, a puzzled half-frown, before Aziraphale’s eyes widen and he blusters away, mumbling about ‘putting on a fresh pot’.

Adam has curled a little more into himself, tight against the arm of the couch, face pinched. He doesn’t react as Crowley crouches carefully next to him. _Fuck,_ but it’s not like he ever had to deal with Warlock at this age. So he starts off easy.

“You talk to Pepper or Brian or Wensley about it?”

A headshake negative. “They wouldn’t understand,” Adam mutters darkly. And – yeah, he gets that. How can three human children know how to deal with a hormone-addled, depression-sensitive, one-wrong-word-from-a-fight former Son of Satan when there hasn’t ever _been_ one before? How can _anyone_ know how someone who once held inordinate powers of Darkness feels when they’re also navigating the tribulations of being a normal teenager?

“Look,” Crowley says. Hesitates, then bulldozes on, “I know what you mean when you say no one gets it. _I_ get _that_ , trust me. What sucks is that there’s no one else in the universe who’s ever gonna get how it feels to have been the antichrist. Yeah? Just like there’s no one else in the world who understand being a demon who’s not really keen on evil, or an angel who doesn’t like the Sound of Music. Sometimes it’s just like that.”

“I _hate_ that it’s like that.”

“Me too,” Crowley agrees. And _that_ has a pair of damp blue eyes looking up at him in earnest.

“I thought adults don’t like when people hate things because it’s too strong.”

“Bugger that.” It earns him a giggle; Crowley lets his lips twitch up in a smile.

“Life sucks sometimes. But it only gets worse when you push away the people who care. _I’m not saying they’re right_ ,” Crowley interrupts the building protest, “You’re allowed to think they’re wrong and you’re allowed to not like how people treat you, even if they do it out of love, and fuck, you’re allowed to run away to bloody London if that’s what’s gonna make you feel better. And maybe no one _does_ understand, but you’ve got me, and Aziraphale, and the Them. You’ve even got your parents when they feel like being reasonable. Okay?”

The kid considers it a moment. His shoulders relax a fraction. “Okay.”

“Okay. You want to talk any more about it? Because I might have to get Aziraphale back in for that.”

“No, that’s okay.” It really does seem okay, too, that’s the kicker. Adam yawns; kid’s had a rough day, he could tell. Crowley basically invented rough days.

He gives the kid’s shoulder a light squeeze. Never been good with physical contact, him. “You can stay here tonight if you like. I’ll drive you back to Tadfield tomorrow.”

“Won’t my parents be worried?”

“We’ll give ‘em a call.” Even now, in the background, Crowley can pick up the faint, angelic tones of Aziraphale soothing a worried Mrs. Young over the phone. He knows they’ll end up not having a problem with it. “Miraculously, I don’t think they’ll mind.”

Adam gives him a shaky smile. The metaphorical clouds are lifting (despite that outside it’s still a deluge) and a bit of the sun pokes through.

Fourteen-year-old boys are notoriously hard to get to sleep; it’s even harder to get them to submit to any sort of physical affection. All the same, when Aziraphale comes back into the room, he’s greeted by the sight of Adam half-laying on his demonic Godfather, sound asleep with one jet wing wrapped protectively around him.

“Not a word,” Crowley threatens. It’s fairly empty, given the hand tangled in the former-antichrist’s curls.

Aziraphale picks his book back up and settles in next to them. The hand not resting on Adam’s head finds itself dangling over the angel’s shoulder, Crowley’s arm firm around his shoulders. It fits, somehow, like three pieces of different puzzles that don’t look at all wonky when put together.

“I didn’t say anything, my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing that came to mind while writing a future chapter of Grey :)


End file.
